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Japhet in Search of a Father, by Captain Marryat.

Captain Frederick Marryat was born July 10 1792, and died August 8 1848.
He retired from the British navy in 1828 in order to devote himself to
writing. In the following 20 years he wrote 26 books, many of which are
among the very best of English literature, and some of which are still
in print.

Marryat had an extraordinary gift for the invention of episodes in his
stories. He says somewhere that when he sat down for the day's work, he
never knew what he was going to write. He certainly was a literary
genius.

"Japhet in Search of a Father" was published in 1836, the seventh book
to flow from Marryat's pen. It was the first of Marryat's books not to
have a nautical setting. It is a brilliantly written book, giving us
insights into aspects of nineteenth century life that we cannot easily
get elsewhere. There is a sustained and fascinating magical quality
about the book, which makes it very compelling reading. For many people
it will be their favourite book among Marryat's works, and certainly it
ranks as one of the greatest books in British literature.

This e text was transcribed in 1998 by Nick Hodson, and was reformatted
in 2003, again in 2005, and, working from a different edition, again in
2008.

JAPHET IN SEARCH OF A FATHER, BY CAPTAIN FREDERICK MARRYAT.

PART ONE, CHAPTER ONE.

LIKE MOST OTHER CHILDREN, WHO SHOULD BE MY GODFATHER IS DECIDED BY
MAMMON SO PRECOCIOUS AS TO MAKE SOME NOISE IN THE WORLD, AND BE HUNG A
FEW DAYS AFTER I WAS BORN CUT DOWN IN TIME, AND PRODUCE A SCENE OF
BLOODSHED MY EARLY PROPENSITIES FULLY DEVELOPED BY THE CHOICE OF MY
PROFESSION.

Those who may be pleased to honour these pages with a perusal, will not
be detained with a long introductory history of my birth, parentage, and
education. The very title implies that, at this period of my memoirs, I
was ignorant of the two first; and it will be necessary for the due
development of my narrative, that I allow them to remain in the same
state of bliss; for in the perusal of a tale, as well as in the
pilgrimage of life, ignorance of the future may truly be considered as
the greatest source of happiness.

The little that was known of me at this time I will however narrate as
concisely, and as correctly, as I am able. It was on the I really
forget the date, and must rise from my chair, look for a key, open a
closet, and then open an iron safe to hunt over a pile of papers it
will detain you too long it will be sufficient to say that it was on
a night but whether the night was dark or moonlit, or rainy or foggy,
or cloudy or fine, or starlight, I really cannot tell; but it is of no
very great consequence. Well, it was on a night about the hour there
again I'm puzzled, it might have been ten, or eleven, or twelve, or
between any of these hours; nay, it might have been past midnight, and
far advancing to the morning, for what I know to the contrary. The
reader must excuse an infant of there again I am at a nonplus; but we
will assume of some days old if, when wrapped up in flannel and in a
covered basket, and, moreover, fast asleep at the time, he does not
exactly observe the state of the weather, and the time by the church
clock. I never before was aware of the great importance of dates in
telling a story; but it is now too late to recover these facts, which
have been swept away into oblivion by the broad wing of Time. I must
therefore just tell the little I do know, trusting to the reader's good
nature, and to blanks. It is as follows: that, at the hour of the
night the state of the weather being also : I, an infant of a
certain age was suspended by somebody or somebodies at the knocker
of the Foundling Hospital. Having made me fast, the said somebody or
somebodies rang a peal upon the bell which made the old porter start up
in so great a hurry, that, with the back of his hand he hit his better
half a blow on the nose, occasioning a great suffusion of blood from
that organ, and a still greater pouring forth of invectives from the
organ immediately below it... Continue reading book >>